“Yeah, I know.” Sighing, I tag out as Devon tags in. This time, Devon goes balls to the wall, and utilizes his full speed and reach advantage to throw a barrage of strikes at Jase that have him veering back. An uppercut lands, and Jase bumps gloves with Devon and nods, acknowledging a strike well done. The new boy looks a little sickly, so I replace Jase and spar with Devon. Usually, we’re a good match—where he’s aggressive, I’m thoughtful—but today my timing is off and I can’t dodge, block, and redirect with my usual efficiency. When one of his solid right-hand punches land, it’s hard enough to rattle me.
“My bad,” he exclaims. “Sorry, man. Thought you had that, for sure.”
“So did I,” I grumble.
“What’s with you today?” he asks. “You’re off your game.”
“Gabe, get over here,” Seth snaps, before I can answer. I go to him. His green eyes are blazing. “You’ve been doing this for too long not to know what’s responsible when you’re having a shit time at training. So whatever it is, deal with it, and come back tomorrow in better form.”
I gape. “You’re sending me home? But it was only a couple of missed counters.”
He gives me a look that says he isn’t falling for my bullshit. “You and I both know better than that. Sort it out.”
“Oooh,” Devon mutters, “you got told.”
“Is he always like that?” Jimmy asks, loud enough that everyone cringes.
I stop as I pass him and lower my voice to reply. “He’s tough, but fair, and that’s what makes this the best place to train.” I offer him a hand up. “Come on, give it another shot. This time, aim for Jase’s right thigh. The fucker doesn’t condition it properly.”
Nodding, he thanks me, and heads back into the ring. I don’t bother supervising because Jase made his point, and I trust him to take things easier from here on out.
“What’s going on?” Devon asks softly.
Sighing, I shrug my shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension that’s built in them. “Went dancing with Syd last night. Didn’t handle it so well. Need a good rest.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. You’re always the first guy to tell us not to go out partying in the lead-up to a big fight, so why aren’t you taking your own advice?”
He has a point, but it isn’t that simple. Not this time.
“I’ve only just convinced Sydney to give me a shot. If I start bailing out of things already, she’ll wash her hands of me.”
His brow shoots up. “You really think so? Because from the cheap seats, Syd seems like a pretty reasonable woman. Plus she understands what this means to you, and what’s involved in getting the W, more than most people.”
I grunt, because he’s right, she does understand the massive amount of work we put in. But then, she also knew that when she told me not to bother being with her unless I was committed to making time for us.
“All I’m saying is, talk to her. See what happens. If you need another opinion, ask your Dad for advice. Him and your mom must have been through all this and they managed to pull through.”
I shake my head. Talking to Dad about Sydney right now doesn’t seem like the best choice, and nor does being open with her about where I’m at. “Thanks, anyway. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, brother.”
“If you have all the answers, then where’s your girl?”
He snorts with laughter and backs away from me, in the direction of the ring. “I have all the answers, so I know that a girl isn’t in the cards for me yet. When she is, you can bet your sweet ass that I’ll talk about my damn feelings with her.”
He turns and leaps into the cage, leaving me to wonder if he’s onto something, and also why I’m considering taking advice from my playboy buddy.
15
Sydney
Gabe messages to let me know he’s gone home to rest under Seth’s orders, and after praising the universe for his coach being an unusually insightful guy, I drop by later in the day to check on him. As I let myself in, I can’t help but wonder if his tiredness is my fault. We’ve had the most perfect week together, but have I asked too much of him? I know he’s got a lot going on and I hate the thought that my selfish desire to spend time with him might have worn him out.
“Hey, Gabe,” I call, removing my shoes.
No reply.
I pad through rooms, checking for any sign of him. His house is something of a mansion. Big and expensive, but comfortable too. He’s not the show-pony type, so all of the furniture is soft and welcoming, and his mother and I helped choose the color scheme, which consists of warm neutral shades. It’s a home designed for living, and I love it. When he first had the place built, he offered me one of the rooms for a ridiculously low rent, but I didn’t want to take advantage of his generosity. On top of that, I’ve secretly fantasized about him for years. Who wants to live with their best-friend-slash-crush? That’s just inviting disaster. Either I’d have done something to expose my feelings, or been devastated any time he brought a girl home.
